


"I think you should know that..."

by ladyoftheskulls



Series: "We can do you a double..." [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoftheskulls/pseuds/ladyoftheskulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bed-sharing out of necessity almost turns into something more, but John and Sherlock are idiots who don't understand each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I think you should know that..."

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Can we imagine for a moment that they HAD been able to do a double for the boys in Dartmoor?](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/84662) by allonsys_girl. 



> So [this Tumblr post](http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/post/103219800946/can-we-imagine-for-a-moment-that-they-had-been) is a lovely little piece of fluff, but it made me imagine how such a scene might have gone entirely differently...
> 
> The premise: the room available in Dartmoor was a double after all, so John and Sherlock have to share. For what originally happened, see the post linked above. For what happened in my version, read on... (Also on Tumblr [here](http://f0xeg1rl.tumblr.com/post/103387506036/onthelosingside-anigrrrl2-can-we-imagine-for).)
> 
> With thanks to allonsys_girl for the inspiration and permission to quote! (text in italics at the top is from the original post)

_*John wakes up at 3am to a raging erection and Sherlock draped over him like an octopus, hands everywhere, and Sherlock’s head on his chest*_

_"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up. You need to move - "_

_*Sherlock wakes up all blinky eyed and rumpled from sleep, nothing but soft edges and his curls hanging over his forehead, his face inches from John’s, and his warm body all tangled up in blankets*_

_"Hey."_

_"Hey, yourself."_

_*they stare at each other for like twenty seconds, John reaches up to brush Sherlock’s hair out of his eyes without even thinking about it, and then…_ *

Sherlock clears his throat nervously. “John, I think you should know that…” _… although I lack practical experience in this area_ , he is about to say, _I have been carrying out considerable research on the internet recently, and I would be honoured — that is to say, I would very much like it, if you would allow me to_ — when John interrupts him in a curiously harsh, strained voice.

"Don’t. Please, just… don’t. I know what you’re going to say; you don’t need to tell me again, You know — oh hell, perhaps you don’t — look, these… things just happen sometimes, it doesn’t mean I want or expect anything from you."

Sherlock has gone very still. Although his right hand has been itching to reach out, to touch, to explore tentatively, to stroke, caress and discover, he has been restraining himself until his declaration is made, so as not to surprise John either with his inexperience or his willingness. But now it seems both these factors are irrelevant: John does not want him at all. He feels frozen with shame, unable to move, a coldness like a heavy fist clenching inside his chest.

"Sherlock." John’s voice, though still strained, has softened; he sounds… embarrassed? Regretful? Even, perhaps, tender… no, Sherlock thinks, best not to let the imagination run wild with that one; look where that has got him so far — to think that he had been on the verge of — and what, what would John have done, it is clear he would have recoiled, been repelled or horrified even, and then how would they have… _He doesn’t want you that way_ , Sherlock realises.

"Look, I’m just going to…" John gently puts Sherlock’s arms away from where they are still, embarrassingly, wrapped round him, rolls towards the side of the bed and half up, gestures vaguely: "… nip to the loo, all right? You get back to sleep; I’m sorry for waking you." He folds back the duvet to get out of bed — Sherlock notices he’s keeping his body carefully turned away, _stupid, why, we both know it’s there, it’s not as if I’m just going to reach out and grab like a spoilt child, now that he’s made his views on the subject clear, I do have some self-control_ , so he has to reach back at an awkward angle to tuck the covers over Sherlock and give him a gentle pat, his fingers lingering for just a moment as they brush the side of Sherlock’s neck ( _why, why would he do that_ — Sherlock’s heart twists further within him, _it must have been accidental, John may be a flirt but he wouldn’t tease to hurt someone_ ) before he makes his hasty way to the bathroom.

The door clicks shut and Sherlock remains lying there, filled with self-loathing.  How could he possibly have thought…  _"I’m not gay._ " " _We’re just flatmates_.” John’s words echo in his head, over and over.  He wishes the remembered words, hurtful though they now are, could drown out the soft but unmistakable sounds coming from the bathroom: John is trying to be quiet but Sherlock knows him too well, has spent countless mornings curled up in his bed listening to John in the shower next door and imagining what each small noise means, what John is doing, the sounds he might make if Sherlock were to — _Stop it!_ he thinks, furious with himself.  Shamefully, his body and his mind both defy him and continue to respond.  He is flat on his back, arms by his sides, breathing rapidly and shallowly through parted lips, holding himself perfectly still in an attempt to stay silent as he strains to hear each tiny detail.  Every muffled gasp, every indrawn breath (faster now and more urgent, less careful) conjures new images in his mind, more graphic and intensely arousing than the last, and each tinged sharply with the bitterness of rejection. 

He has never been so turned on, or so ashamed, in his life.

The end comes all too soon and not nearly soon enough: John’s breathing speeds up, becomes heavier; he hears it catch once — twice — another beat and a silence that seems to stretch forever — and then a stifled half-groan that John tries to bite back but can’t quite, turning into a long, low exhale and three deep, panting breaths.  Then… nothing.  Sherlock is left lying motionless in bed, desperately and painfully aroused and utterly humiliated, a dampness that might possibly (he refuses to admit it) be tears trickling its way slowly from the corners of his eyes down the sides of his face and into his hair. 

He can’t let John find him like this.  Although the bedclothes are heavy enough that his state of arousal isn’t obvious to the eye, once John returns to the bed there’s a good chance he will notice, even unobservant as he is, and Sherlock cannot — _cannot_ — bear that to happen.  Quickly, he composes himself and rolls over to one side, feigning sleep.

***

In the bathroom, John is leaning heavily against the sink, knees trembling, one hand gripping the side of the basin, his forehead resting against the coolness of the tiled wall.  _Jesus.  That was…_   He refuses to think, actually, about what that was, though phrases such as _mortifying_ , _really fucking hot_ , _the best way out of an awkward situation_ and, strangely, _a wasted opportunity?_ keep mingling confusingly in his head.  He also refuses steadfastly to think about the fact that he has just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life, masturbating into the bathroom sink in a hotel room while fantasising about his gorgeous, brilliant, probably-asexual certainly-unavailable married-to-his-work flatmate.   _God._  

Waking up next to Sherlock like that, though — in fact, ‘next to’ didn’t even begin to describe the way Sherlock had been wrapped around him, long limbs tangled in his, one hand ever so tantalisingly close to ( _better not start that again_ , his brain warns, _or we’ll be in here all night_ ) — was it any wonder that his body had reacted accordingly?  _It’s not like you haven’t dreamed about it, both waking and sleeping, enough times_ , a little voice reminds him.  _Shut up!_ he tells the voice forcefully.   _I know it’s not — we’re not like — he’s not like that.  I’m grateful enough to have him as a friend_.  And if any more niggling thoughts or wayward fantasies threaten to make their unwanted presence known, he tamps them down firmly.  _Not gay.  Flatmates_.  _Married to his work._

Now that the endorphin high is fading, he realises it’s distinctly chilly in the bathroom.  _Time to clean up, get back to bed — plenty of work to do tomorrow_.  He’s also starting to feel vaguely embarrassed; all right, masturbation is a fact of life, everyone does it sometimes ( _even Sherlock?_ the little voice asks — he refuses to listen) but it’s usually a private matter, and it must have been blindingly ( _audibly?_ God, he hopes not) obvious what John’s been doing in here.  Well, Sherlock knows John has a sex drive, even if he doesn’t have one himself; John hopes, as he washes up, splashes some water on his face, dries himself with one of the too-fluffy towels, that he’ll just dismiss it as another one of John’s ridiculous biological needs, like eating and sleeping, that Sherlock himself claims not to have.

When he pushes open the bathroom door to return to bed, Sherlock is lying on his side, facing away from John, his breathing deep and even.  He’s clearly asleep.  John is both relieved and, obscurely, a little disappointed.  Quietly, so as not to disturb Sherlock a second time, he gets into bed, pulls up the covers, keeping a careful safe distance away on his side of the bed, and is soon once again asleep himself.

Sherlock lies awake all night, staring into the darkness until it turns to the pale grey of a washed-out, wintry dawn.


End file.
